When Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears, I would approach, but dare not move;— Tell me, my heart, if this be love. Whene’er she speaks, my ravished ear No other voice than hers can hear; No other wit but hers approve;— Tell me, my heart, if this be love. If she some other swain commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove;— Tell me, my heart, if this be love. When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before, The clearest spring, the shadiest grove;— Tell me, my heart, if this be love. When fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove;— Tell me, my heart, if this be love.
Collection:
Sub Title:
III. Love’s Beginnings